


Underneath the Waves

by Mscrwth



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Hurt Dana Scully, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s06e10 Tithonus, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mscrwth/pseuds/Mscrwth
Summary: I asked Fellig how one could have too much life; the question, in retrospect, seems almost arrogant. I'd figured I had a right to speak of such things, I know better now.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, just borrowing from CC, GA, DD & co. The title comes from a poem by Margaret Atwood, quoted at the end.

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First, colors swirling in crazy patterns, twisting and eddying in a dizzying kaleidoscope, but darkly, shades of black and gray, deepest purple -- like a bruise -- and murky green. Trying to make sense of them is like trying to make out the colors on a whirligig, spinning full tilt in the hands of an exuberant child -- impossible, and ultimately futile.

Next, noises intrude, resounding all around, inside my head and out; some sort of mechanical buzzing, loudly clamoring for attention, and a ringing that won't go away. Voices thundering like the whispers of an angry God, the sound of breaths being held, prayers degenerating into unintelligible murmurs, all of it interspersed with a beep-beep-beeping sound that is slowly driving me crazy.

Smells then, too, overwhelming in their none odor, starched linen, antiseptic scent of chlorine and bleach, neither quite managing to mask a deeper, more violent reek of depression and decay.

Amidst the clamor, a voice calling out; two voices, one light and female, the other deep and definitely male. Both cherished. Both sounding scared. A whiff of some flowery perfume I'm unable to put a name to, but associate with feeling safe and loved.

Finally, light moves in like a blessing, tugging me upward through the murkiness, up towards a rippling of brighter colors. I find myself rising with the tide, and slowly the din resolves itself into familiar hospital sounds, too loud still, but bearable and less threatening now that they have been catalogued and referenced.

A heart monitor close by, the drip of an IV, Mulder's sharp intake of breath, the syllables of my name, spoken in a soft, familiar voice. The rise and fall of it evokes memories of days spent in bed after being the last one to catch the flu that had mowed down the family one by one, of being laid up with a broken leg after falling from the tree house in the backyard. Gentle, quiet days -- appreciated more in hindsight -- spent gloriously alone with Mom -- Melissa and the boys away at school and Ahab off sailing his beloved seas.

If I stay here, Daddy, underneath the waves, will you find me?

"Dana... Dana can you hear me?"

With one last kick, I break the surface.

"Mom...?"

The sound of my own voice, so weak, startles me, unfamiliar knife-edges of want and need to it I've not heard since childhood, coming unsheathed now.

Pain is everywhere, waxing and waning under the pull of my heart, faithfully beating inside an aching chest, hurt hitching a ride on the surge of blood pumping through my veins. Suddenly, all I want to do is drift back to the bottom of the comforting ocean I'd been submerged in, and stay under until it passed -- or until I did.

"Yes, sweetheart, it's me."

Such relief coloring the familiar cadences of that careworn voice, I'm left feeling guilty and entirely unequipped to deal with the burden of putting that note there, knowing it will surface later in my dreams.

"Sweetie, can you open your eyes for me please."

"Can't..."

"Just for a moment? It's okay, the Doctors tell me you're going to be okay, and Fox says the same thing, he's here too."

A big hand covers mine, squeezing lightly. Familiar smell of leather and Mulder scented soap in my nostrils, drowning out the hospital smells, conjuring images of going over case-files in the basement; or better still, untold dingy hotel rooms -- us seated on his bed, or maybe mine -- shoulder to shoulder.

"But, Dana, I need you to wake up for a bit, so I can see for myself."

I open my eyes and the swirling colors coalesce into familiar patterns; troubled blue, hazel, scared green, anxious, relieved.

"That's it, you can do it."

It takes ages until I accomplish the small task, everything's blurry, dimensions wildly off, like looking through the smudged lens of a microscope. When my eyes finally focus, I'm rewarded by the sight of my mother's beloved face hovering over my own.

"Hello, baby girl. Welcome back."

A hand on my cheek and fingers in my hair, a kiss to my forehead, wetness of tears on my cheek, mine... or is it Mom crying?

"How are you feeling, sweetie?"

"Good... I'm good."

A fib if ever there was, feeling like hell and aching all over, wanting to cry but too hurt and weary to make the effort, lying instead in the face of her concern.

<Shouldn't tell a lie Dana-Raina, it's a sin><Oh, shut up, Bill><I am goh-na te--hel><Bill, you're such a bastard>

"Well, at least she's over the I'm fine stage."

Mulder, sounding strained and vaguely annoyed, voice like sweet molasses and battery acid all at the same time, cracked like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

"Yeah, but she's still lying. I'm her mother. I know when she's hurting. I'm getting a nurse in here."

Footsteps moving away, determined click-click-click of high heels, muted on the linoleum. A door opens and whooshes shut.

Mulder's face moves into view, replacing the endless, too white expanse of ceiling and wall, and the comfort of my mother's presence by my side.

"How are you feeling, truthfully, now that your Mom's out of the room?"

His voice is so soft it barely registers above the din still in my ears, but ringing out, loud and clear and strong inside, where I'd always heard him deepest.

"Not too good."

A surprised gasp.

Thinking, if you ask for the truth, better be prepared for it, partner.

"Honesty, it's a whole new concept."

A smile brightens his voice and his eyes, taking the sting from his words; a soft touch on my arm, calluses on his fingers -- sandpaper scraping across sensitive skin -- his touch too warm and welcome for me to care.

"Hmm..."

He sits down on the bed, gently, trying not to jostle me. The small slide of my body into the dip his bulk makes in the mattress, nearly makes me scream in agony anyway. Pain flares up from under my ribs and south of my sternum and north of my pelvis -- everywhere -- all the places on my body where it had secreted itself away, waiting, no doubt, for me to wake up and appreciate the brutal splendor of its renewed assault.

Big hands settle on either side of my waist and his face hovers inches above mine, blurry as if seen through a fine mist, or a rain-streaked window; his sunflower seed breath caresses my cheek.

"Hang on, the nurse will be here shortly to shoot you up with the good stuff."

His nearness radiates warmth into my over sensitized skin, so near, creases around his eyes and between his eyebrows, deep with concern.

Sound of a door opening and more noise drifting in,

people laughing in the hallway,

a phone ringing in the distance,

a speaker; "Dr. Goldstein report to room 319,"

STAT, code blue,

footsteps hurrying past my room,

Thinking, not mine then, not me, gonna be earthbound a while longer.

"Fox, is she still awake?"

Mom's voice and her concerned face moving back into view.

"Yeah, but barely."

Movement to my right, then a prick and a burning sensation -- sedatives, bring 'm on -- warmth spreading through tired limbs, numbness, quickly enveloping me in its embrace.

"There, that should make her feel better in no time."

A different voice, a nurse, nice enough sounding, but unknown, and therefore inconsequential. Gaze locked on Mulder.

"Sleep now, Scully."

Eyes drifting shut, and then opening suddenly with the shock of his lips touching mine, sweetly, so softly.

"Just rest." His voice as sweet and soft as his touch had been.

"Okay."

"You'll be fine, baby girl, we'll be right here."

Drifting again, darkness swirling, but not so bleakly now, noises echoing, comfortingly, like being underwater in an indoor swimming pool, Mulder near, and the waves calling me under.

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God, I hate this.

I hate waking up not knowing where I am, or how I got there, or what the hell happened to put me here. I hate opening my eyes and finding myself surrounded by beeping machinery and white walls and the cloying smell of nursery grown flowers already wilting. Most of all, I hate the sight of Mulder's panic face hovering over me as I struggle to awareness, and am still out of it enough to murmur his name, in that needy voice I last used -- whenever the hell it was that I last found myself in this position.

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate Mulder, and I kind of more than like his face in all it's non-committal splendor; I just hate to see his carefully crafted mask slipping into place over the wild-eyed terror I know was there moments before.

Angry and disgusted and scared all at the same time, and unable to figure out which comes first, I try to pry open my eyes beyond the slits I just barely managed. Peering through those cracks, the world appears narrowed down to letterbox format, the effect of which is both eerie and strangely comforting. Boxed in like this, the world does not seem nearly as big and bad as I know it is. The effort of opening my eyes is exhausting, like trying to shove open the doors to a bank vault, manually, from the inside, with no one there to help. Oh -- and I've been locked in over the weekend and the air is running out.

As I wrestle open the vault doors, and meanwhile attempt to figure out which ward I landed in this time by the sound and smells surrounding me, I begin to suspect whatever happened must have been bad. The deep pain in my gut that throbs and flares with each breath -- even through the haze of what I begin to suspect are some pretty heavy-duty painkillers -- is a dead giveaway.

That, and Mulder just called me by my given name.

"That's it, Dana." His gentle baritone buzzes in my ears like a bee around honey. Bad analogy, bad, bad, bad analogy. I drown in memories of our almost kiss in his hallway, and our quasi honeymoon to the Antarctic, as Mulder continues his monologue. "That's it," he drones on, "open those baby blues for me. Come on now, come on, Scully. You can do it, partner, I know you can."

He's used that name what...? Three times in all the years I've known him? Yes, I'm surprised, and that's putting it mildly. I give up on my attempts to open my eyes; the pistons or pressure locks, or whatever they installed to keep them shut, make the task impossible anyway. I concentrate on trying to force words past the constriction in my throat instead.

"Mulder?" Yep, it's there, the Needy Voice, never fails to put in an appearance.

I hear the screech of chair across linoleum as Mulder jumps up, and then warm fingers close over mine and his sunflower breath is on my face.

"Scully... Dana, are you awake?"

Twice, he called me Dana twice, must be even worse than I figured. My eyes fly open, the pressure keeping them shut suddenly gone. Everything is a blur for a frantic moment, and then my surroundings spring into too sharp focus, like a television coming to life with the contrast keyed way up. My eyes flit about the room as I blink to adjust the picture.

Yup, batting a thousand.

Whitewashed walls. Check. Machinery bleeping. Check. Panic face. Check, and gone again, replaced by The Mask.

"Who died?" I ask without thinking.

"What?" He sounds like someone's punched him in the gut. His mask may already be in place again, but his voice and his movements give him away every time anyway, to the trained eye and ear that is.

"I'm Scully, you're Mulder... who died?"

"Not funny, Scully"

"It's not meant to be," I whisper. My throat hurts, and my voice doesn't carry nearly as far as it usually does, but I don't mind, since the effect is Mulder bending over me so close I can feel his body-heat warming me. "You never call me Dana, unless something serious is going down."

"I guess this qualifies," he says as he gets up and pours me a glass of water from the pitcher beside my bed. My eyes follow his less than graceful movements, and I keep them trained on him, letting him serve as my anchor when the weight of what happened finally crashes down on me.

Gut-shot, I'd been gut-shot. Oh my God. My temporary wet-behind-the-ears partner got a bit too trigger-happy, and blew a great big hole through me. The pained gasp I'm too zoned out to keep in makes Mulder look up, and the look on his face tells me all I need to know about just how close I came this time. His hands tremble, and water spills on the sheets covering me. I don't protest; my eyes are locked on the sparkle of the water still in the glass, and the droplets of condensation clinging to the outside, tempting me with promises of cool oblivion.

Unaware of my preoccupation -- or the fact that most of the content of the glass is now soaking into the bedding -- Mulder plunks in a straw. His free hand slides behind my neck, big and warm and comforting. He gently supports me as I raise my head and take a careful sip. The effort it takes to perform this simple act ratchets up the pain in my gut another notch, but I'm able to ignore it, focusing instead on the feel of the water -- velvet sliding down my sore throat. I close my eyes in utter bliss, but all too soon the straw is withdrawn.

"It qualifies alright," I concur with him, when it becomes apparent that I'm not getting any more than a few drops, doctors orders probably. "By all rights, it should have been me who died."

He sighs deeply, but doesn't say anything, and when I open my eyes I see the mask has slipped down a bit. "Don't say that please." His voice is a strangled whisper.

"It's true though..." His mask slides back into place again and I hate it. A joke then -- his defense mechanism, but it's served me well on occasion too. "No bikini's for me anymore, I guess. Pity, I had a hot number all saved up for you to ogle during our next case in Hawaii."

Better. He smiles a bit. "You're finally wide awake, aren't you?" The smile doesn't reach his eyes, and the bags under them tell of sleepless nights probably spent by my bedside.

"Yeah... Yeah, I guess I am. When did you get here?"

"You've asked me that three times already."

"I did?" I remember waking up at one point and speaking to Mulder and my Mom, but the memory is hazy at best. "Sorry..."

"Don't be, you were pretty out of it each time."

God, I hate this. More time missed, days judging by the stubble on his cheeks. At this rate I must be fast running out, no fair when I just wasted so much of it chasing someone who apparently had a never ending supply of the stuff and didn't cherish it. I recognize the fact that I'm indeed pretty doped up, when that thought makes me tear up inside a bit.

I hate being drugged like this, abhor being dependent on any kind of crutch, chemical or otherwise. Painkillers tend to make me feel loopy, not in control of my faculties, but I know I need them -- the amount of pain I'm in already borders on the ridiculous -- and I know I'm due for another shot any time now. The realization that I know just which painkillers are coursing through my system, and when I'm due for more --knowledge gleaned from too many instances past -- makes me feel even worse. To add insult to injury, how apt, they hardly seem to be making a dent this time, and I know I'm going to have to ask my doctors to up my dosage. I hate that too.

It's necessary though. As I slowly become more and more aware of my surroundings, the ache in my gut intensifies; a tidal wave, gathering in might, intent on sweeping me away. The pain is already bad enough to make me just about ready to scream, but I know I can't let loose; Mulder would become unglued if I showed such weakness. He's probably blaming himself already for not being there to protect me or take the bullet himself, and showing my pain would further undo him.

I hate needy Mulder. I hate having to pick up the pieces of his shattered psyche, when I'm in need of solace myself. This is the way it usually goes; something happens, I get hurt, Mulder breaks down and needs to be comforted. He goes from scared to angry to apologetic, and finally to relieved -- and then winds up doing again, what he swore he'd never do again. I hate it, but I play the game each time, meting out comfort when it's my cue; following along on the next crazy scheme. He's Mulder, after all. It's Needy Mulder I hate, not all his other multifarious incarnations.

I estimate he's in phase three now, and one look at his face confirms it. He's about to go into apologetic mode, but for some unknown reason I'm not up to playing this time.

"Scully, I..."

"Mulder, please, don't do this," I tell him. "Not this time."

"Do what?"

"Make this about you, make me feel like I should be the one comforting you." His face falls, I imagine I can hear the hollow thus as it hits the ground, but I forge on anyway, determined to have my say before the wave pulls me under. "I don't have the strength to shoulder your guilt, Mulder, not this time."

He sounds confused, and looks it too. "I would never ask that of you, Scully."

I don't like being cruel like this, but can't seem to stop myself. I hate serving as a crutch to Mulder when I'm in need of a crutch myself. I hate how, consciously or unconsciously, he always manages to become the focus of everyone's attention, including mine. We both go through hell on some atrocious case or other, and everyone zeroes in on him. His angst is always just a bit worse, his suffering more significant somehow. I hate how Mulder is considered fragile because he's been through so much in his life, is treated like any more emotional strain might break him, whereas me...? I lost just as much, maybe more, but somehow I'm viewed as tough, impervious, able to handle anything. Cast iron has nothing on me, or so the stories go, I have no tear ducts; if cut, I do not bleed, bullets bounce off me.

Guess I showed 'm on that score, huh?

I hate these roles we've cast ourselves in, the mold we have allowed others to cast us in; hate that somewhere along the line we started to believe these fabrications ourselves. There's no time to express any of this though. The wave is cresting, and any moment now I'm going to be caught in the deluge.

"Yes, you would." I cringe at the harshness of my words, the way he bows his head, but I refuse to back down now. "You do... every time something bad happens. You don't mean to, God knows you try to hide it from me, but I know you, Mulder, I see right through the mask. And I know myself; I always allow it, but not this time. There's not enough of me to spare this time. This should be about me, my wants and needs."

He stares down at his hands for a bit, hair hanging down in messy tendrils, obscuring his expression. His long, nimble fingers flutter in his lap, spelling out his unease, and a muscle in his cheek twitches in response. Just when I think I've hurt him beyond repair, his head comes up, and he looks at me so sweetly, with nothing but care and concern in his eyes, and a hint of laughter? He bends over me and caresses my cheek, and his voice is as soft as his eyes. "Then tell me what you need, Scully," he whispers. There is no hurt or rejection in his tone.

I'd expected anything from him but that gentle admonishment, and it pisses me off no end, but the wave is looming ever larger and I'm out of time.

"I need a nurse." I gasp, and feel a twinge of satisfaction as his face registers surprise at my rejoinder. Then comprehension dawns, and he reaches for the call button just as the wave finally breaks. I'm drowning, and I flail helplessly as the rip tide slams into my body from seemingly everywhere. A strong hand grips mine, and holds me safe against the backwash trying to pull me under. I don't let go until another nice sounding nurse with a needle throws me a lifeline and pulls me in.

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Mulder is standing outside my room, I see him hovering out there, ready to barge in. I know he would like nothing better than for me to show anger or distaste at Ritter, so that he can pound him into the ground for me; expend some of that nervous energy he has been so careful to keep from showing around me. I'm incapable of showing anger or anything else though; all I feel is tired and bored. I didn't ask for Ritter to come in, and tell me how sorry he is. I'm not interested in his apologies. When it looks like he's about to go into another lengthy spiel, I wave him off, telling him no further reparations are necessary, and assuring him he's forgiven. In actuality, I don't have anything to forgive him for. In order to forgive someone, you need to feel something for them, love or hate, either -- or both -- will do. I don't feel anything for Ritter, besides a twinge of annoyance.

Finally, confession done, and absolution received, Ritter leaves the room. His shoulders are slumped, and he looks dejected, all cockiness bled out of him. Hitched a ride probably, on the flow of my blood as it poured out of my body and over his hands, forever staining them. I look on, as Mulder steps up close to him and whispers something that makes the slump of Ritter's shoulders even more pronounced.

Not sparing him another glance, Mulder turns on his heels and enters my room, a bright smile plastered across his face. We've not spoken of our earlier almost fight, but he's been unusually withdrawn, putting up a cheerful face when we're alone in the room, but not saying much -- nothing of any import anyway; keeping perfectly still when my Mom or anyone else is present in the room with us.

For the first few days I didn't mind, but then, I didn't mind much of anything, while I slept through the worst of the pain under a blanket of painkillers.

Good old Sister Morphine, my new best friend.

Enough is enough though, and as soon as I judged it prudent, I started to phase out the heavy stuff. I really do hate drugs, and I'd hate to go and get myself addicted. The pain is still pretty bad, but manageable, and with my return to awareness, Mulder's reticence has become more noticeable.

It's been driving me up the wall, to be honest.

Today he seems different though, less withdrawn. I sense in him the need to re-establish our connection, and welcome the chance to get back to our comfortable banter-zone. I'm bored out of my skull with the forced inactivity, I hate that I need help performing the simplest of tasks, hate not being able to get up and walk -- or better yet run -- off some of my restlessness. I absolutely detest that Mulder apparently decided that the forced inactivity should extend to my brain as well. There's nothing worse to me than not having something to put my mind up against, which is usually where Mulder comes in. As far as I'm concerned, his agile mind is his most attractive feature, though his butt comes in a close second.

He takes my hand and we thumb wrestle for a bit. The silence between us stretches like taffy as I wait for Mulder to gather his thoughts. He sighs almost imperceptibly, "Coroner's report came back on Fellig," he offers, "says he died of a single gunshot wound. That's all it said." He sits down on the bed beside me, and pain slashes across my stomach like a solar flare as my body is jostled. I suppress the wince, knowing it would upset him to see how much discomfort I'm still in. He looks at me with a knowing half smile anyway. "I talked to your doctor, and he says you're doing great, making the fastest recovery he's ever seen."

I know what he's doing, he's telling me to be patient, to not push myself too much, to give myself time to heal, body and soul.

He's trying so hard and I reciprocate by trying to share what's been bothering me most about this case with him. "Mulder, I don't even know how I entertained the thought. People don't live forever."

I asked Fellig how one could have too much life; the question, in retrospect, seems almost arrogant. I'd figured I had a right to speak of such things, having lived through cancer and the death of loved ones. I know better now. At the time, I'd still not completely bought his story, and even now I don't; the implications are too frightening. Am I now cursed as Fellig was, as he believed himself to be? Am I going to haunt the back streets looking to catch death in the act, am I going to forget Mulder's name? Am I going to live forever? Would I want to?

Mulder interrupts my train of thought just as it's about to derail. "No, no," he mutters, "I..." It's rare for Mulder to stumble over his words like this; he's usually so articulate. It makes me afraid that I'm not going to like where he's heading. I look away and gaze out the window, waiting for whatever's coming next. "I think he would have. I just think that death only looks for you... once you seek its opposite."

My eyes swivel back almost of their own accord, and meet his. As our gazes lock, I read the fear in his eyes, and understand it.

Mulder's afraid I'd been looking so hard to solve this case, because I have a death wish to match Fellig's. He thinks that my striving to connect with this man, who somehow managed to be the first on the scene of so many deaths, was an expression of some unconscious desire to be next. He's trying, in his own oblique way, to reassure himself that that's not the case.

"Is this why you've been so distant these last few days, Mulder? You're thinking I may have an unconscious death-wish?"

"The thought had crossed my mind, yeah."

"Uncross it then."

"Easier said than done, seeing how you went about investigating this case, obsessing over your prime suspect, going after him solo."

"Excuse me?" I'm annoyed at his presumptuousness and I welcome the emotion, even as I notice arguing like this is fast draining what reserves of strength I've managed to build up.

He stands and moves over to the window, where he fiddles with the shutters, until what little light had been allowed in from outside is kept out too. "You ditched Ritter. You shouldn't have."

"You're a fine one to lecture me on that subject."

"I know I've done my fair share of going off half cocked myself, don't think I don't."

"So what, pray tell, makes that any different than this?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "At least when I ditch you, I know that when you come after me with guns blazing, they're pointing the other way."

My energy level is dropping like a stone to the bottom of a lake, and I hate how weak I am; too weak to further argue this particular fallacy, that's for sure. We're opening this singular can of worms between us when *I'm* ready for it, not before, thank you very much.

"Ritter was only after the collar, he wasn't interested in what really happened, in Fellig's ability to predict when people were about to die."

"And you were." He opens the shutters and light spills into the room again. The sun is shining outside and dust motes are caught in the rays like fireflies. They die when he closes the shutters with a snap, are reborn when he opens them again. I squint and frown at him, and he stops fiddling with the shutters and plops down in the bedside chair.

"I was... So what?"

Leaning forward, he props his elbows on his knees and lets his hands dangle down between them. "Scully, we come across death in so many different guises in our investigations, it's not a big leap to think fascination could turn to fixation."

"I'm a pathologist Mulder -- "

"That's what I mean, you cut up dead people for a living," he interrupts. I hate when he does that, hate how he effortlessly knows just when I'm about to go into a rant, and what to say to deflect me, but I'm too tired to call him on it.

"But it's a job not an obsession," I say instead.

He looks at me with those earnest hazel eyes, straightens up in his chair, and takes my hand in his, smoothing over my knuckles with his thumb. "Death is a mystery you've always striven to unravel, and you've already lost so many loved ones without coming closer to really understanding why."

I rip my hand from his, and put it in my lap, where he won't dare grasp for it again. "I know why," I tell him. "The heart stops beating, blood stops circulating, beeeeeep you're dead."

"I'm talking *why*, not how, Scully. Why do people have to die? Good people, like Melissa, innocents, like Emily."

"I don't know, nobody does." I hate the tears that well in my eyes, and the fact that I'm only just able to blink them back. I hate my Irish ancestry for betraying my grief so completely anyway. I hate that Mulder knows just which buttons to push -- even if he does push them rarely, hate that he always has a handkerchief at the ready, and that his eyes mirror my pain so absolutely, refracting it, changing it into something not mine but ours.

"And it kills you sometimes, doesn't it?" he says, as he hands me one of his embroidered handkerchiefs, the same unimaginative gift from his mother, every year on his birthday. "It kills you to not know, not understand."

"I don't need you to psychoanalyze me." I'm angry and tired, and only this side of bawling my eyes out. I blow my nose instead. It takes everything I have to continue looking him in the eye.

"I've been asking myself what it is that you do need."

I don't know how to answer that, so I shut my eyes, avoiding him. How does that go again? Denial is not just a river in Egypt -- or something like that. Ashamed and hating myself for it, I will myself to yawn and make like I'm falling asleep. After a moment, I feel him take his leave, lips brushing across my forehead, hands cupping my cheeks, thumb swiping across my lower lip.

I hate that he's right once again, he's gonna do the math and tell me he's, what...? 98.9 percent right -- one of these days. I hate that that sounds just about right too.

I hate his "Just sleep now, Scully", and the soft snick with which the door closes behind him, just on general principal.

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	2. Chapter 2

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"What the hell are you doing?" Mulder's voice floats to me from the doorway and I don't have to turn around to know the exact configuration of the scowl on his face; so I don't

You're an educated man, Mulder, take an educated guess, I think instead, as I slam my suitcase closed and zip it up. Only then do I turn around, moving slowly against the pull of my stitches. "I'm getting out of here, what does it look like I'm doing?" The timbre of my voice matches my mood, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, and his face softens in understanding.

"Going stir crazy, just a bit?" He crosses his arms and leans back, shoulder braced against the doorpost, posture utterly relaxed, and all I can do is envy the careless -- painless --quality of his stance.

I smile to cover my chagrin, and he smiles back just like I knew he would. Maybe it's the frequency of my smiles, or rather, the infrequency thereof -- or maybe he just likes what he sees when I smile at him. I don't know. For whatever reason, Mulder seems ill equipped to resist me when I flash my pearly whites. A fact I've sometimes used to my advantage.

"Saw through me, huh?" I won't hesitate to use it now. I want out of here.

"Right through."

I allow my smile to widen a bit, and go for broke. "Well, then, will you go and get me signed out, please?"

He pushes away from the doorpost, and plants his hands on his hips, effectively blocking the exit like a linebacker intent on preventing a touchdown. "No can do, Scully. I spoke to your doctors just yesterday. They want you to stay on for another couple of days to get your strength back."

No big surprise there, I would have said the same thing in their position. "I can do that far more easily from the comfort of my own home, Mulder," I counter, knowing just exactly where this argument is headed.

He shakes his head, giving force to his denial. "But you're in no condition to take care of yourself, you can't even bend down to tie your own shoelaces." He's starting to look more than a little bit peeved.

"I'll not be wearing anything but slippers for a while anyway." Flippant, me? Hell, yeah, I can be flippant with the best of them; after all, I studied with the master.

Mulder studiously avoids looking at me, his eyes roaming through the contents of the box just inside my room instead. It's filled with get-well cards and presents. A Pooh Bear from Matthew and a glow in the dark alien from the Gunmen, gray not green -- naturally. Chocolates from Tara, which I'll probably wind up forcing on my Mom, since I'll be on a carefully controlled diet for weeks, and a cane from Skinner, his own, I think, from when he was shot in just about the same place I was. Balancing atop all this, a vase filled with flowers from Mulder, wildflowers mostly, a few roses sprinkled in as well. A riot of color amid these bleached surroundings, anchoring me to life beyond the whitewashed walls of my hospital room. They won't survive the journey back home, but I'm not chucking them just yet, they were obviously handpicked and still smell delicious.

Finally, the man himself looks up, and his eyes are darker than the chocolate melting in the box at his feet. "Who's gonna do your cooking and cleaning for you, carry your groceries?"

"I'll have them delivered," I'm getting exasperated myself, though his reactions are as predictable as they come. "Look, I'm not an invalid."

"I hate to say this, but you are. Look at you, you can't even stand up straight."

Touché, but I'm not about to admit that to anyone but myself. I make a show of picking my suitcase off the bed, and depositing it on the floor next to the get-well box. I need to bend down a bit to do it, and straightening up makes fire ignite in my gut. I'm not backing down now though. "I'm just very tender," I tell him, "but that's perfectly normal, nothing to worry about."

"Let's let the doctor decide that, huh? He should be here any minute now." His eyes are soft now, softer than Pooh Bear, softer than the velvet petals of the roses he brought me.

"Mulder, no."

"Scully, yes."

"I've had enough of hospitals." I know I'm not playing fair, and feel guilty when I see his face blanche with memories of cancer and coma, but forge ahead anyway. "Just get the paperwork. I want out of here."

"I don't think you should check out of here AMA --" He's just going through the motions now, there's something very much like disgust in his voice, and resignation. I don't know if the disgust part is aimed at me for insisting on going against doctor's orders, or at himself for allowing it. I don't care at the moment either, all I know is we're out of here.

"Mulder, all I need is lots and lots of rest and --when I'm sufficiently healed up -- lots and lots of PT. I'll be fine, I promise. I *am* a doctor you know."

"And your own worst patient."

"No, Mulder, that would be you."

He gives in, but throws me a warning glance that tells me just exactly what he'll do to me, should I not follow my own advice and take it easy. I think it includes some type of restraints, and I'm pretty sure that, in this specific scenario, they're not the fur-lined variety either.

Once Mulder is safely out of the room, I grab onto the bedpost with a relieved sigh. The effort of getting dressed and packing my bags has left me exhausted, and my stomach aches terribly, like a migraine has taken up residence not in the bones of my skull but in the desolate wastes of my war-torn stomach. I get up, shuffle to the pitcher of water on my bedside table, and down some painkillers. As I sit down again to await Mulder's return, I send a fervent prayer heavenward that they'll kick in before he gets back.

Already, I'm questioning the wisdom of getting out of here in such a hurry, but I know staying longer isn't an option -- not if I want to keep my sanity intact. I'm already aggravated beyond belief by the mind numbing routine of sleeping and feeding and bathing -- three out of three I needed help with until the day before yesterday, which didn't improve my disposition any. I'm also bored out of my skull. Staying longer would constitute reckless endangerment of the doctors, nurses and other hapless hospital staff faithfully taking care of me. Can't have that on my record. Besides, admitting to Mulder I may have been too hasty in deciding to sign out of here is even less of an option.

I hate how I can't seem to accept his concern; can't let go of my pride and tell him I need him. He gave me ample opportunity to invite him to stay at my apartment, and let him take care of me. He even left the door wide open for me to decline *his* help but accept the fact that I need *someone* to nurse me through the next few days. I hate how he somehow managed to make me feel like a heel for ignoring his offer. I loathe that I can't allow myself to admit to any weakness, even to my best friend. Even after having been shot in the gut, for crying out loud. I like that he graciously exited, allowing me this round, but not without letting me catch the glint in his eyes that tells me this match ain't over yet.

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The trip back is grueling.

When we started out on our way home, I had been feeling mildly euphoric. The combination of drugs and fresh air and freedom after being cooped up so long was a heady mix that had me floating along on cloud nine for a nice little while. But all too soon the strain of traveling started to wear on me, and about an hour into our journey I abruptly plunged back to earth, faster than a kite when the wind suddenly dies down.

Having contrived to mostly hide the discomfort I'm in during the first half of our trip home, I'm now fast arriving at the point where I'll be unable to restrain myself. Every time we hit a bump or pothole in the road, my still healing body is jostled unmercifully, and each time the urge to scream and vent my misery is a bit more overwhelming.

Mulder feeds me painkillers at regular intervals, gives me fluids and helps me to the bathroom and back. Gives me liquid looks and a furrowed brow, and tight white lips. Lost in a haze of pain and medication I'm ill equipped to deal with him. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep as much as possible.

By the time we pull up outside my apartment building, I'm near tears, and so out of it, aliens could have landed, and I would've just said hi.

I hate how I can barely get out of the car. Mulder shoulders our luggage, rushes around to my side and stands there, looking down on me as I struggle to escape from the clutches of the seatbelt and rise from the leather embrace of the passenger seat. Finally -- sighing deeply -- he bends down, unbuckles the belt and offers me his arm. I take it ungraciously. I hate having to lean on him so much, but must admit I like the way he pretends he's not carrying most of my weight as we make our slow way up towards my front door.

He uses his own key and we shuffle into my living room. I gingerly sit down on my couch, and let a relieved breath escape as the strain on my injury lessens to a more bearable degree. I touch my hand to my stomach, feel where the bandages cover the entry wound, and sudden tears well up in my eyes. I hate that I'll have even more scars to add to my collection now, more battle scars to account for in the unlikely event that anyone is ever going to see me naked again. Scars I won't be able to conceal with a different haircut or some strategically placed makeup this time. But then again, who the hell am I kidding? The only person I want to see me naked, already knows what lies beneath the bandages, besides which, he's seen me frozen and beaten up, comatose, withered with age, riddled with cancer, covered in alien goo, and up to my elbows in intestines -- and he's still here, isn't he?

I look up, and the object of my musings is hovering nearby like a mother hen protecting her chicks. The image this evokes makes me smile a bit and Mulder, catching my faint amusement, cocks a questioning eyebrow.

I know the eyebrow action is something he's picked up from me, and the though of me leaving my mark on him, however slight, makes my smile grow wider.

"Care to let me in on the joke?"

"No way," I reply as I try to get more comfortable on the couch, which seems to be much harder and lumpier than I remember it all of a sudden. My poor, abused, stomach muscles throb in a steady rhythm and my gut feels like it's on fire. Miserable, I burrow deeper into the throw cushions dotting the couch, eyeing my bedroom door wistfully. I'm desperate for some relief, and craving the blissful numbness of sleep, but I'm too weary and exhausted to even attempt to lever myself off the couch -- much less make my way over towards where my bed is beckoning.

In that uncanny way he has of reading my mind, Mulder disappears, and comes back carrying my suitcase, from which he retrieves my meds. Retreating to the kitchen, he moments later reappears with a glass of water, hands it to me and takes the bottle of pills from me, which I have been unsuccessfully trying to open.

Damned childproof screwcaps...

I accept Mulder's offerings with a slight nod, swallow down the painkillers gratefully, close my eyes, and let my head slump down to my chest. Pinching the bridge of my nose between shaky fingers, I wait for the pills to kick in.

All the while, Mulder putters about in the kitchen, making tea and trying to stay out of my way. As the painkillers start working their magic -- I may hate them, but I'm not stupid enough to discount them entirely just yet -- he surprises me by suddenly sitting down beside me, and snaking his arm around my shoulders. When he gently pulls me against him, my eyes fly open and I pull away sharply, flinching at the stab of pain the sudden movement causes.

"Mulder, what are you doing!" I blurt out, pissed off at my own reaction. I hate appearing weak before him, hate the way he always seems to feel he needs to protect me, and shelter me from harm, seems to think I need his protection.

At the same time I find myself longing, sometimes, to sink into his embrace and accept his strength and comfort.

Sometimes, as in quite often.

The contradictory mix of feelings he conjures up in me leaves me reeling at times.

Usually, I'm able to deflect him; he throws sexual innuendo my way, as if I am a catcher for his favorite baseball team, and he the pitcher. I reverse roles on him, just often enough to keep him on his toes. He runs hot while I run cold, and vice versa. We've done this dance for going on seven years now -- Fred and Ginger, without the happy ending -- and I'm dizzy with it.

I realize suddenly that this latest near-death experience has left me so angry, precisely because we still haven't put an end to the endless push and pull that has been underlying our damned partnership from the moment I stepped into his basement office. We need to resolve this thing between us, before something happens and the end result is not as fortunate -- well, relatively speaking. I think he feels it too and that's why he's been so withdrawn these last few days. He's thinking, like I am, that perhaps it's time to try for some resolution, but doesn't know how to go about it.

I've been pondering this issue ever since our aborted kiss in the hallway a few months back, and have one or two scenario's all plotted out. I haven't shared them with him yet, too afraid that he'd be unwilling to star in them. I'm less afraid suddenly, and resolve to make a try for it. Not now though, when I'm hurting and exhausted and all my defenses are down. Any moment now I'm going to keel over and -- like a mirror on a hardwood floor -- shatter into about a zillion pieces.

Come to think of it, maybe this is the right time then, me with my guard down, zoned out on painkillers and half delirious. A familiar scenario, though this time, the roles would be reversed.

Yeah, resolution, that's the ticket, I crow to myself in my drug-induced clarity. But not now, when any sort of follow through of the physical kind is impossible. Soon though, when we're both in our right minds and there's no denying anything the next morning.

I smile a secret smile, and then the thought is all but lost to me, as my eyes droop closed of their own accord.

"Scully, relax." Mulder's soft voice reaches me as though he is speaking to me through the umbilical cord of our cell phones, voice vibrating in my ear, lulling me into a state of utter relaxation.

"It's okay," he drones on, "everything's okay. I just want you to lie down and get some rest now. Will you do that for me? Will you please let me help and doctor you for a bit?"

"Isn't that my job?" I murmur. My voice is already rough with sleep but despite the state of near exhaustion I'm in, I can't resist teasing him a bit. He sounds so serious. I force open my eyes, and am confronted with his earnest face, hovering just inches above mine.

"Humor me, okay," he says. "It's not often I get a chance to practice my bedside manner. I'm usually at the other end. Now let me hone my skills for a bit, and do as the doctor ordered, just this once."

Not protesting, I let him help me up. He hands me my cane and we shuffle to the bedroom. I hate that I need the stupid thing just to move around, but it keeps some of the strain off my sore muscles so I grudgingly make use of it, but only as little as I can get away with. Mulder's arm slips around my waist. I like how he pretends I'm not using him as a crutch too, while at the same time half carrying me to the bedroom.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and he is down on his knees without transition, and already busy taking my shoes off. I hate that I'm unable to perform even this simple task myself, without causing myself major discomfort. I like how he doesn't make a production of it, but simply divests me of my shoes, and slips my socks off my feet. I feel his long fingers dance across my ankles and then he lifts my legs ever so gently, and helps me lie down on the bed. I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.

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I awake to the smell of fresh coffee and for a moment my sleep dazed mind draws a blank, unable to pinpoint where I am; in the hospital, at home, on a stake out, or maybe in the trunk of a car, or encased in ice on some alien ship. All of these specters, and more, figured in my dreams tonight, as they do most nights, but they are already fading, being quickly relegated to that place in the subconscious where dreams go when the waking mind takes over.

Then the haze lifts as memory floods back, and, realizing what must be going on in my kitchen, I cannot quite suppress a smile at the thought of Mulder doing the domesticated bit. I only ever see him munch his sunflower seeds or chomp down on greasy burgers, and greasier fries, and from time to time have seriously wondered how he stays so fit and trim, with the way I suspect he takes care of himself.

Apparently, the man does know how to put together a decent meal though, if the smells wafting in are any indication. The delicious aroma of coffee, warm rolls and freshly squeezed orange juice makes my mouth water. The rolls are for Mulder, of course. Only liquids for me for a bit longer and I'm not likely to get a go at the coffee. Just the smells though, make me more determined than ever to get well as soon as possible, which I assume, is part of the game plan. My suspicions are confirmed, when Mulder walks in with a breakfast tray loaded with food. He smiles when he sees I'm awake, and I realize that some of the tension he's been exhibiting these past few days seems to have evaporated. He still looks concerned, but the naked fear that's clouded his eyes for days on end seems to have lifted.

As he approaches the bed, I try to sit up, and am painfully reminded of just why Mulder is in my apartment, cooking breakfast and doing his mother hen routine, when my abused stomach immediately starts to protest my movements -- loudly. I wince and my gasp of discomfort is not lost on Mulder, who quickly plunks his tray down on my bedside table, and rushes to my side. I try to ward him off.

"It's okay, I can do this." I am, in fact, feeling much better, still hurting quite a bit to be sure, but not as punchy as I'd been last night, after that hellish trip. Being back home, surrounded by my own things, on familiar grounds, has lifted my spirits immeasurably. This past night, sleeping in my own bed, has done more in the way of healing than these past weeks in the hospital. I'm still a long way from being recovered though, and I grunt softly under my breath while hoisting myself up, making good on my words with some effort.

"I know you can," Mulder says, and his annoyance is clear in his voice. " What I don't know is why you won't let me help. It's obvious you're hurting." His sharp tone stings like a paper cut, and his eyes betray his chagrin at being denied his opportunity to lend a helping hand.

"True," I concede, and am quick to amend my response when I see concern replace his earlier chagrined look. "I'm still a bit sore," -- the art of the understatement 101, I aced it -- "but it's not all that bad as long as I take it slow and easy. I'll be right as rain before you know it, so stop worrying."

"If you promise to follow your own advice, and take it easy for as long as it takes, I will."

"Deal," I interject, before he can go off on one of his tangents. I'm in no mood to listen to another lecture on doctors making the worst patients. Seeking to deflect him, I motion towards the tray he abandoned in his haste to get to me. I cannot suppress the note of trepidation in my voice as I command, "Now bring that tray over here, and surprise me with your culinary skills."

He does, and I am surprised -- pleasantly so -- at the sight of the breakfast he's managed to put together.

"Mulder, you really do keep unfolding like a flower," I tease, and he shoots me an amused look.

He bats his eyes and purses his lips. "Just one of my many hidden talents, Ma'am." His tone is light, but I see in his eyes that he knows what I am doing, and will acquiesce to my will for now, but reserves the right to get back to this subject at any time in the future, if he deems I've broken our deal. I take it as a victory of sorts, and turn back to my breakfast.

Realizing I'm hungry, I dig in enthusiastically, my mind on nothing but the feast before me for a time. No solids yet and the coffee he brought me -- AMA again, but I'm not telling on him -- is decaffeinated, and so watered down it has all the punch of a cup of tea that has only seen a teabag for about one full second. It's still the best breakfast I've ever had. Amazing what hospital food will reduce you to.

Mulder meanwhile paces the room, absently sipping from a steaming mug of coffee from time to time, his eyes never leaving me, taking in my every move and expression. I feel his eyes on me, but decide not to comment on it until I notice he has stopped pacing, and is looking at me with a forlorn expression on his face. I lift my eyebrow -- a question mark, cultivated to perfection -- and tilt my chin up slightly, silently asking him what the matter is.

He sighs, and when I reach out, he comes to stand beside me; shoulders slumped, hands twitching at his sides. "Oh Mulder," I breathe and as if that were his cue, he picks up the breakfast tray and puts it on the floor at the foot of my bed. Straightening up, he looks down on me, and his eyes travel down to my abdomen, then up to my face. As they meet mine, I see tears threatening behind the hazel of his gaze, and I come to a sudden realization. It's nothing earth shattering, but simply this, that I don't hate Needy Mulder, and never have. Perhaps it's Needy Scully I hate, perhaps I need to get to know her better, and learn to see her good side, just as I learned to see the good side to every Mulder incarnation I was ever confronted with.

I pull him down beside me, and sense his reluctance in the way he bends over me. I know he's eager to be close, know that it's not rejection that makes him hesitate, he's just afraid of hurting me.

"It's okay," I tell him.

"You sure?"

"Just get down here."

He lowers himself down beside me, molding his strong, warm body to mine. His hand hovers over my stomach, drawing circles in the air just millimeters from where the bullet plowed its path of destruction through my abdomen. I wince at the disturbance. The displaced air alone is enough to awaken the pain in my gut, and I realize I'm past due for another painkiller, but when he realizes my discomfort and pulls back, I latch on to his hand and clutch it in mine. Our joined hands come to rest against my ribcage, and warmth spreads through me, rippling outward from the point of contact just south of my sternum, soothing my pain, alleviating tension. This is much better than any kind of chemically induced relief. I sigh, and he chuckles.

"You okay?" His breath moves across the skin of my neck.

"Yeah."

I hate the way I can feel his muscles tremble in an effort to keep even the slight weight of his arms off me, despite my reassurances. I hate that he can tell just how much pain I'm in from the curvature of my spine, the set of my shoulders, the tension in my muscles, reads it in my eyes, knows it by the rhythm of my breath as it moves in an out of my lungs. His facility at discerning my distress speaks to too many other hours spent referencing my every movement, cataloguing each facial tick; most of them spent by the side of some hospital bed, with me unconscious and unaware of the scrutiny.

"Still hurts, huh?"

"A bit."

"More than that, I'll bet."

"Yeah."

"Tell me how to make it better... Tell me what you need," he murmurs, using the same words and the very same tone of voice he used in the hospital a week ago.

This time, I am unafraid to answer in kind. "Just you, doing what you have been doing. I need you to make it better."

I realize now that his words then weren't an admonishment but a plea. I realize too that my reluctance to play the game before had nothing to do with Mulder being needy, and everything to do with me being my own contrary self. It's never happened that I got hurt like this, without Mulder there to back me up. So much for Vampires, Liver Eating Mutants or Aliens hell-bent on taking my life -- after all that a bullet was almost the death of me, a stupid accident. It seemed anti-climactic to put it mildly, and just a little bit sad. Sliding down that wall, feeling my blood drain from me like water from a burst pipe, realizing I was about to die with no Mulder there to beg, threaten or cajole me into staying alive long enough for help to arrive, was the scariest thing that ever happened to me. Enough so that I clamped up, and hurt the one person ready to take my pain upon himself, the one person who would have gladly stood in the path of that bullet. I got scared and angry, but what I forgot is that it was probably just as scary for him.

I hate how I pushed him away and zeroed in on myself like that, I hate how I treated him so badly and called it fair play. I hate how I denied him his outlet -- my shoulder to cry on -- when he must have needed it so badly, must have been just as traumatized as I was.

I love how despite my pushing him away again and again, he always manages to come back to me. Stubbornness, thy name is Mulder.

I love how he can be patient and pushy, sullen and kind, self-effacing one moment, self-centered the next, an overbearing megalomaniac sometimes but totally selfless when it matters the most, I love his many contradictions.

I love how he is willing to take my pain upon himself, how he absorbs it, teases and bullies and charms it out of me, and in the process makes me realize I can share it with him -- share anything with him.

I love how he breathes my name so softly, and the absolute reverence with which he slips his arm under my neck, pulls my head against his chest, and sidles up closer to me. I love how he presses a soft kiss to the nape of my neck, just over that other scar, which forever marks another important stage in our journey together, and buries his face in my hair. I love how his body seems perfectly molded to mine, love how his erection pokes me in the back, and he tries to wiggle his hips back and away a bit, in hopes I won't notice. I love his surprised gasp, as I push back until I feel his hardness poking at me again, and the answering rush of desire that sweeps through me.

I love how he loves me.

I love how I love him.

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**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago. Wrote some BSG fics too & decided to move them all over here to have them in one place.


End file.
